Stewardship Corner

I never thought of myself as someone who had much to give. My husband and I worked

hard, but most months it felt like there was just enough to scrape by. Still, every Saturday morning, I would bake bread. It was my little tradition—four loaves for the week. And somewhere along the way, I started making one extra. I couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was my way of trusting that God would show me where it was needed.

One Sunday after Mass, I saw him. An older man, sitting in the very back pew. His shoulders were slumped, his clothes worn, and he didn’t speak to anyone. People passed him by as though he was invisible. Something stirred in me—I almost walked out, but I couldn’t. I went back, placed the extra loaf into his hands, and whispered, “The Lord always provides.”

That evening, there was a knock at my door. It startled me...we don’t get many visitors at night. When I opened it, there he was. His hands trembled as he held the bread close to his chest. Tears streamed down his face as he said, “I had nothing to eat today. I thought God had forgotten me. But then you came.”

I cried too. Right there on the doorstep, with a stranger who wasn’t a stranger anymore.

That night I realized stewardship isn’t about donating money or volunteering only when it’s convenient. It’s about living with open hands and an open heart. My bread, my time, my compassion, they were never really mine. They belonged to God, meant to be given away.